the ghosts of gods in this house (thing)

Stepping slowly in between rocks and tree roots
seem to have lost large amounts of ocean
to hot cup of tea windy winter
white makes the branches break and fall
not on a stray cat that isn't stray but trespassing

I'd walk for a long time when noise is too loud
or someone everyone sad or mad
all around me, front, back, sides, above and below.
I have seen the mansions of my generation crumble,
how I mourn the loss of dream castles,
we must never forget the feeble and run-down

Backyards, however hard they try,
will always be mossy.
Down, down, down into the darkness below old gardens,
Gently hibernating, the dormant ferns, the rocks of ages.

A family, however hard it tries,
will always be little. Or belittle.
Why do we strive to control passion?
Is there a limited supply?

I have seen many loves in sixty moon decades,
how I mourned the dimming.
These winter clothes are wide and hulking deep,
they like to bellow, they like to bind.
If this home does break, freeze, thaw,
should it not also house?

I must dance with the dusty hall again,
you may use your damp mop and birdsongwhistling with your unclean white lies,
a small symphony of drifting motes will lift.

Considering my home, the cracks, leaks, wrong colors,
my barren bedroom lacks some comfort.
Down, down, down into the darkness of too many blankets
gently go the ghosts, the gods - so bare, so inhospitable.